


Cry Your Mercy

by coloursflyaway



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Damian is about 20 I guess?, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 08:13:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8364622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coloursflyaway/pseuds/coloursflyaway
Summary: It doesn't start like Dick wishes it did, with Damian all grown up. It starts with Damian still small enough to look up at him, an almost-cruel smile on his lips, and it ends.... well, it doesn't.





	

It started with –

 

– with Damian almost grown up, towering over Dick with shoulders so broad they almost match his father’s, a jaw that is too defined, too sharp, to ever be considered boyish. It started with the hint of stubble that darkens Damian’s cheeks when he pulls back his hood after a long night of patrol, it started with a voice that had lost its high pitch, but not its familiar timbre, with Damian’s petulance, his malice slowly wearing away, but never quite vanishing.

That is what Dick would like to say. It wouldn’t be the truth.

 

It started with a look instead, shot from green eyes which never looked like they belonged to a child, with that first half-smile Damian gifted him with. A tiny, precious thing, barely there and yet enough to make Dick stop dead in his tracks, not yet used to the slight curve of his little brother’s lips, _his ten-year-old brother’s lips_ , and it starts that very moment, because Dick’s heart fills with warmth, flutters, and before he knows it, his treacherous brain thinks, _what if…_

 

 

Sometimes, Dick hates waking up in the manor. That moment of bleary uneasiness that comes from opening his eyes to see a room that is not quite home anymore and yet more than guest quarters could ever be, the scent that reminds him of his earliest days here, cuddled into the feathery duvets with Bruce at his side, the silence which no city Dick has ever been to has possessed.  
The knowledge that somewhere near him, Damian is living, breathing, completely oblivious to what Dick really feels for him.

Then again, sometimes Dick hates waking up in his own flat, too.

Still, he manages to push off the covers which feel too soft today, crawl out of bed although every motion seems to be its own kind of punishment; he has overdone it last night, just like the night before, and the night before, and the night before. Willingly too, pushing his aching body until his muscles were screaming, his fingers trembling when he finally peeled the mask from his eyes, the glue solvent making them sting.  
Alfred, if he knew all the facts, the guilt and the regrets and the _what ifs_ , would know a perfect explanation why Dick is treating himself this way. Dick would too, if he was honest with himself, but that is a luxury he hasn’t indulged in in a long, long time. After all, this is so much easier, pushing thoughts and feelings as far away as he possibly can. It’s what is expected from him, too, and Dick has always hated disappointing people.

He manoeuvres his body into the bathroom and under the shower, ignoring the various twinges and pains that make his nerves sing. The hot water brings a bit of relief, makes him feel better, and, because it is still so early and Dick’s brain isn’t yet quick enough to bury the feeling before he has registered it, worse.  
Because guilt, he has found, is a curious thing. It doesn’t dampen the love Dick carries around in his chest, couldn’t, because it’s too bright and all-encompassing and beautiful a thing to be soured like that, but it changes almost everything else instead. Smiles still come easily to him, but seem to sit wrong on his lips, he still jokes and laughs and flirts, but there is a voice in the back of his head, constantly asking if he deserves this, how he can be happy, when at night he lies awake, dreaming about his baby brother’s lips.

And dream about these lips he does, even now, if just for a moment, because Damian’s smiles come more often nowadays, and Dick still stores them carefully in his memory, little bursts of happiness in-between a world that seems more grey than anything these last years.

Dick gives himself another moment to luxuriate in the memory of Damian’s little smirk when they ran into each other the night before, then shakes off the memory and the feelings and the guilt, and puts on a smile instead.

 

The first thing he sees when he steps into the kitchen is Damian, perched on one of the chairs, one of his hands buried in Alfred’s thick fur. The other one is holding a cup of coffee, black and thick, the Turkish kind, which Jason still thinks fitting for Damian’s “dark and bitter soul”. Neither Damian nor Dick have ever told him just how much sugar the current Robin dumps into his coffee before deeming it acceptable.  
“Hey, Little D”, Dick greets, and valiantly ignores his heart, his mind, his very being. Still, he ruffles Damian’s hair when he walks past him to get to his cereals, because it’s something he has always done, and because the little bit of selfish pleasure he gets from it does not mean he should deprive Damian of what little affection he gets and allows.  
“Good morning, Grayson”, Damian replies, even if he doesn’t look up, by now even unfazed by Dick’s fingers pushing through his short hair. “What are you doing here?”

Dick shrugs, although Damian cannot see him, swallows back a _I wanted to see you_ , and tells himself he’s not lying, because wouldn’t be the whole truth anyway.  
“I was in the neighbourhood, thought I’d crash here instead of going back to my place. Plus, I missed actual food that doesn’t come out of a cardboard container and smells of glutamate.”  
“Tt.”  
Damian looks up, even if only for a second and to shoot Dick a rather unimpressed glance, not knowing that Dick still counts it as a win, considers almost anything that will lead to his baby brother’s eyes on him worth the effort.  
“Fine, don’t believe me then”, Dick shoots back, his voice light and a smile on his lips while he pours his cereal. “But believe me, Dami, once you’re all grown up and moved out, you’ll learn what it is like to miss Alfred’s meals.”

 

 

Winter in Gotham is colder than Dick remembers it being when he was still a boy, but then again it might be because he is standing alone on a rooftop, overlooking Gotham City, not with Bruce’s cape brushing against his legs, no promise of fluffy duvets and hot chocolate waiting for him when he returns home. Still, the city looks beautiful from up here, a billion lights, it seems, coming together to form a landscape of their own, brilliant and ever-changing, fragile.  
He remembers another thing too: Standing on rooftops so similar to this one, a cape weighing down his own shoulders and a boy he would soon call brother next to him. Wondering how so much anger and frustration and skill could fit into such a small body, how ten years could be enough to mould a human being into this.

He doesn’t wonder about those things anymore, because he has found the answer to both those questions, asked a thousand more. And he would ask more still, he thinks, right now, because it seems to be that kind of night, if the air around him didn’t shift, darkness make way for a figure clad in yellow, green and red.

“Robin”, he greets even before Damian can say a thing, ignoring the nostalgia pulling at his heartstrings, because somehow, this is how it all started, how they started. “What brings you here? And where is Batman?”  
“He has returned to the cave”, Damian answers, turns until he too is staring out at the night sky instead of right at Dick. “It is almost morning.”  
It might be, Dick supposes, although he wouldn’t have noticed; it’s been a long time since his inner clock stopped working.  
“Then why haven’t you flown back to your nest yet?”  
“It was… suggested I’d come and find you. Red Hood let me know you were up here, _moping_ , to use his exact words.” There isn’t exactly fondness to be found in Damian’s voice when he speaks about Jason, but still, he has come a long way from the open hostility Dick used to expect from him. “He did not mention the shape you were in, though.”  
“The shape?”

It takes Dick a few moments to remember – there were fights, yes, and his right leg is aching, his ankle possibly sprained, a few cuts and bruises strewn across his face – before he shakes his head, chuckling quietly.  
“It isn’t that bad, really. And I’m not moping. Just enjoying the scenery.”  
“Of course you are.”  
Damian still isn’t looking, but Dick is, just like he always is, and for the fraction of a second, he thinks he sees the other’s hand jerking towards him, like Damian wants to reach for him. But it’s only that, only a moment, and Dick is tired and in pain and the city seems to be waking up ever so slowly beneath them, and he cannot be sure, so he doesn’t return the gesture, although his fingertips ache with the need to at least touch the fabric of Damian’s cape.

“Still, it’s very sweet of you to come all this way to try to get your big bro to cheer up”, Dick say after a moment of silence has passed, amusement audible in his voice although he is speaking the truth after all. “Even if, in this case, it wasn’t needed.”  
_Big brother_ , he calls himself, and knows that while it used to be Damian who needed the reminder of their relations to each other, it’s him now, and for completely different reasons.  
“I am not sweet. Nor did I come to cheer you up.”  
Dick could argue, but he doesn’t, just shrugs, asks, “What did you come for then?”  
“To tell you to go home, Nightwing. It’s late. Too late. Don’t force me to make you, you know I could.”  
And he does, even if he doesn’t think the other realises just how easily he could make Dick do almost anything at all.  
“Fine”, he concedes, and in the corner of his eye, sees Damian smile, just a little smug. “Want to come back with me, order pizza or something?”

The words are out of his mouth before Dick knows it, an invitation he never wanted to speak out-loud, because he knows that spending more time with Damian, and that in his own flat, tired and aching and yearning for touch, is only going to make things worse. And yet, there is nothing to be done against it now, especially when Damian nods slightly.  
It shouldn’t, and yet it makes his heart flutter, swell with anticipation. Because just like guilt is a curious thing, love is too, makes Dick crave something he knows is going to hurt him like nothing else ever could.  
“Great”, it makes Dick’s lips say now, although his voice sounds distant. “Race you back?”  
He never gets an answer, just the sight of his little brother’s cape billowing behind him when Damian takes off.

 

 

His fist collides with the man’s jaw, knocking his head back violently. He stumbles, this stranger who might be called Marcus, or Martin, or at least something like it, groaning and spitting out a mouthful of blood. His lips is split, one of his teeth missing, and Dick could give him a moment to breathe, because it would be the nicer thing to do, but doesn’t. Instead he uses the heel of his palm to grind it into the man’s throat, not quite but almost crushing his Adam’s apple.  
The impact forces a low wheezing sound from his mouth, the stranger’s hands coming up to clutch at his throat, as if hoping to lessen the pain somehow.  
Maybe he knows that it is useless already, that he has lost this fight just like his five or six companions, because he doesn’t even try to retaliate, just tries to back away as much as he possibly can.

Maybe, if Dick was a nicer person, he’d give the man a moment to catch his breath, but he isn’t, and he doesn’t, instead pushes closer, twirls and uses his movement to kick the stranger into his chest. It’s enough force to make him fall against the wall behind him, not unconscious but most likely not far away from it.  
There is no need to hit him again, use, as Bruce would call it, _excessive force_ , but Dick isn’t his mentor and his body is singing with the exertion of this fight, the pain in his muscles at least for the next few minutes not excruciating, but elating. So he hits him, one blow landing in the man’s solar plexus, another one on the side of his head, another one shattering his collarbone. It’s less of a dance than fighting usually is for Dick, but just as satisfying, and it’s only when he feels the stranger’s nose crunch under his fist that he lets go.

 _Overkill_ , that is what the videogame he last played with Damian would call this, _a really bad idea_ is what Dick’s mind suggests instead. He resists the urge to wipe away the blood staining the man’s face, because it would feel too domestic, instead produces some zip ties and turns his opponent around, takes limp, bruised hands in his and pulls them behind his back, securing them. He forgoes tying the man’s feet as well, because he is in no condition to go anywhere anymore, gets up and for the first time since he started fighting, he is becoming aware of the way he has treated his poor body these last two days.

He sends off a text to the Gotham police about the whereabouts of the criminals, jumps off the roof and feels the wind whip against his skin. And doesn’t stop.

 

 

One of the things he dreams the most about is Damian. It’s not a surprise, never has been, and Dick is just glad that they are never more explicit than a kiss or two, a hug that lasts a bit too long. It’s as if even his subconscious is too afraid to look too closely at his feelings for his younger brother, afraid that what it’ll find will be even worse than he thinks now.

He is used to the dreams now, he thinks, and yet, when he wakes up that night, his heart is beating wildly, his mouth is dry and his mind is racing around one thing and one thing alone: Damian.  
A few days ago, his brother has spent a weekend over at Dick’s apartment, alternating between being endearing and infuriating, loveable and insulting, all in all, just like always. They played video games and ate too much toast, shared a few beers they will have to keep secret from Bruce and didn’t go on patrol once. It was the best weekend Dick has had in almost his entire lifetime.

And it is just that weekend he has dreamed about, about them on the couch, Damian’s socked feet tucked under Dick’s thighs, the movie playing on his old, crappy TV illuminating his face in ever-changing colours. Only that while insulting the actress’ admittedly lack of skill, Damian shifts a bit closer to Dick, when he reaches for the popcorn, their fingers brush, and Damian doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to pull his hand away. When Dick takes a drink from his beer, it seems like the other’s eyes flicker down to his lips, watching Dick lick away the last bits of the drink and when Dick throws an arm around Damian, his little brother leans into the touch.  
It’s all things that happened, really happened, just a bit more, like the way Dick wishes the evening would have gone, and that is what gets to Dick so much.

What gets him most though is when the movie ends, without Dick having watched a second, Damian looks over at him with clear green eyes, darts out his tongue to wet his lips.  
“Grayson”, he says, and his voice is so familiar, so loved. “You know, if you wanted to kiss me right now… I would allow it.”

 

 

He doesn't see Damian for almost two weeks, and this time, no matter how strange it feels to just think that, not because his little brother is avoiding him, not because he is upset, not even because one of them is out of the country. He doesn't see Damian because he is avoiding him, because although he is used to the dreams, this one has left him shaken right to the core, because it had seemed to real and yet so domestic, like something that he would only have to reach out to touch.  
Which is a lie his desperate, depraved mind is trying to feed to him, nothing more, but while Dick knows that, he is still scared that he might forget when Damian is around. He forgets so much else around his little brother too after all.

So Damian texts and Dick answers, but always finds an excuse when the other mentions video games or movies or Alfred's cooking. It's difficult to lie to Damian, and it hurts Dick more intimately than he ever thought it could, but it's necessary. And if Bruce has taught him anything at all, it is to push personal feelings aside if duty requires it.

And it works, right until the moment it doesn't anymore.

The weather is getting warmer, the few birds that seem to be fond of the power lines above the street in which Dick lives are slowly returning, and Dick doesn't think twice about leaving the window open when he leaves to do some much needed grocery shopping. Not that it would make a difference, really, because when he comes back, Damian is perched on the back rest of his sofa, and would be anyway. It’s something Dick grew used to when his brother was still a kid, not a fully grown man. Seeing Damian like this again makes him smile, even if it always hurts a bit to be reminded of those first, untainted years they spent together, not even the frown on Damian's face can change that.

"Hey Little D", he greet and tries to go for casual, for easy, for something that is definitely not _I've craved your touch for years and don't know if I'll always be able to stop myself around you_. Which is not _your father would kill me if he knew what I'm thinking about when I look at you and I might just be inclined to help him_. "What's up? And what are you doing here?"

“You have been avoiding me", Damian states, doesn't ask and yet Dick shakes his head as an answer.   
"I haven't, I've just been busy-"  
"I knew you would deny it, Grayson, and I knew I wouldn't believe it, so don't bother with this charade. I am not interested in your excuses. Just tell me if it has something to do with me and if you intend to keep up this ridiculous game of yours."  
_Yes_.  
"No", Dick says, because this is Damian's way of asking if he has done anything wrong and he won't make his little brother carry the burden for him. "I've been avoiding pretty much everyone. Sorry."  
And at least that is true.

Damian hops down from the couch, his movements graceful and yet economic, and picks up one of the two controllers that have never left Dick’s coffee table.  
“Good. Because I have already ordered food from the Chinese restaurant whose website looked the least unsanitary, and brought over a small selection of video games.”  
Again, no answer is needed, but this time, Dick doesn’t give one, either. This is Damian’s way of telling him he is forgiven, and although Dick didn’t realise that there was something he had to be forgiven for up until a few minutes ago, he’s still glad for it.  
“I suppose I’m paying?”, he asks, although he knows the answer he will get already.  
“Well, of course.”

 

 

Damian stays over, and Dick doesn’t sleep a second that night. He could, or at least he thinks so, but after having spent so much time apart, he doesn’t want to. Instead, he watches Damian fall asleep on the sofa next to him, head pillowed on his arms and the cushions.  
Before that, they had made cheap microwave popcorn and watched bad horror movies, which are the only ones Dick can really stomach, before that, his little brother had beaten him a dozen times at almost all the games he brought over. Before that, Dick had realised that he had missed Damian even more than he had thought.

Now, the sun is rising slowly, illuminating his living room, there is still some kind of movie playing on the TV in front of them, and Dick is doing his best to keep his hands to himself, because Damian is right there and Dick just wants to make sure that the other is really, truly here.  
In the end, it’s that urge that wins, and Dick’s hand finds its way down to the other’s ankle, wrapping around bone and warm skin, and it must be his overactive imagination, but Dick thinks that he can feel Damian’s pulse, and almost, almost thinks that he feels it jump under his fingertips.

 

 

If there is something Dick hates, it’s when someone brings children into it. Beating up men and women who have chosen this life and everything that comes with it, he can deal with that, but standing in some filthy alleyway, a woman in a mask and a trench coat, who is holding a gun to a child’s head, this is too much.  
The boy’s eyes are blue and wide, he is trembling with fear and Dick wants to reach out and smooth the hair from his forehead, make sure he is alright.  
“Let the boy go”, he calls out and doesn’t get an answer, not even a twitch, the woman just backs away from him, inch for inch. It’s not a good sign, because the alley is a dead end and Dick doesn’t know what she will do once she realises her back is pressed against a wall.  
“Lady”, he tries again, takes a careful, cautious step forward. “He’s just a kid, nothing more. You don’t want to hurt him, just lower the gun and step away. I won’t-“

And then he sees it, a twitch of a finger. He sees it, he moves, but it’s a second too late.

 

 

Damian finds him hours later at the Batcave, watching the footage his mask recorded, rewinding to see those last few moments again and again, her finger on the trigger, the boy’s scared eyes. The gunshot that followed, the blood, the crumpling body.  
For the first time in almost forever, Dick doesn’t look up when he hears those familiar, almost-silent footsteps, not even when Damian sits down on the floor next to him. The last time he was this ashamed, Damian had died, again because Dick wasn’t there to save him, to make sure no one could touch him, only that this boy, this nameless child, won’t have a father to bring him back.

Usually, it’s him who speaks first, but he doesn’t have the strength to do so tonight, so the silence between them stretches on while Dick rewinds the tape again, watches the woman fire her gun, watches the boy die. Maybe he shouldn’t let Damian see this, not when he still needs his brother’s trust and affection so much, but Dick cannot stop himself; before the body has hit the ground, he has pressed rewind.  
He could have stopped this, Dick knows it, if he had been less distracted, less tired, less hurt, if he had been a little bit faster.

The tape stops in front of him, the blue of the boy’s eyes hidden as he blinks, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, Dick looks away from the screen. Damian’s hand is resting next to his on the console, still pressing down the _stop_ button.  
“Don’t do this to yourself, Richard”, he tells him, and Dick looks over at him with tired, bloodshot eyes, marvelling at the fact that his heart still skips a beat when Damian uses his first name, despite of all that has happened.  
“I failed him”, Dick tells him and Damian’s expression changes, even if just in the smallest, most miniscule ways. His eyes soften and yet he clenches his jaw, the corners of his mouth turn downward. Still, when he speaks, his voice is low and as gentle as Dick has ever heard it get.  
“You didn’t”, Damian says and sounds like he means it, too. “You were there. You tried. You cannot save everyone and you know that, even if it hurts you. But this, torturing yourself like this, it does not help a thing. Not you, and definitely not the boy.”

He’s- he’s right, Damian is, and Dick knows that, but the knowledge doesn’t help a thing, doesn’t make it better. Looking at his brother doesn’t do that either, and yet he continues to, traces the contours of Damian’s face with his eyes.  
“I should have been faster”, he tells Damian, and watches the other nod, this perfect, wonderful boy, who can lie and yet is telling him the truth.  
“You should have been”, Damian agrees and blows Dick’s heart to pieces by moving his hand so it rests on Dick’s wrist. “And you will be for the next child.”  
“How do you know?”  
It’s not like Dick to be like this, not just moping, but almost hopeless, but it’s been a long night, a long month, a long year, and Dick is drained, broken. Damian isn’t.  
The fingers around his wrist squeeze slightly, and Damian’s eyes are still soft, but determined, honest beyond everything else.  
“Because I know what you can do”, he says, looks directly at Dick, almost through him. “Because I know _you_. And you will.”

 

 

The guilt doesn’t stop, but it grows easier to bear, or maybe, it just grows so familiar that Dick learns to live with it.  
Still, he doesn’t forget about the boy, not for a moment, tries to make sure nothing like it ever happens again. He trains twice as hard as before, starts eating healthier, tries to sleep more and longer. The only thing Dick cannot bring himself to stop is going on patrol, because every night he spends at home feels like another betrayal; another boy is waiting for him to come and prove that he can still save someone, and Dick is at home, sipping hot chocolate.  
So he take some painkillers and breathes through the pain and goes on. And goes on.

 

 

“I’ve heard about what happened with that boy”, Tim says, and Dick doesn’t flinch, but it’s a near thing. A few weeks have passed (Dick knows the exact number of days, but God, would he like to forget it) and yet he is thinking about that moment again and again and again, replays it like he did that night in the Batcave.  
“Yeah, well”, he tells his brother, Tim, who he has always been close to. Tim, who is terrifyingly clever and almost as kind, who gives so much and asks for little in return. “It… it was one of the worst things, and I don’t know how or when I will stop thinking about it, or stop feeling guilty for it, but I know that I can’t save everyone. No one can. And that doesn’t make it much better, or better at all, but it helps, at least.”

It’s only after Dick has finished speaking, smoothing the edges of the sharp, jagged shame he is still carrying inside of him, that he realises he is using Damian’s words, how much the other has affected him after all that night, with his unwavering confidence and trust in Dick.  
“Huh”, Tim says, tilts his head slightly. “That sounds… reasonable. Surprisingly so. A bit like what I would have said, maybe. I actually came here to talk some sense into you.”  
The confession makes Dick smile, and maybe he shouldn’t, because they are both in costume, but he reaches out to grab Tim, pull him close to give him the hug he deserves. And Tim goes willingly, tucking his head under Dick’s chin, and the smile on his lips widens until it threatens to break Dick’s face in two.  
He loves Damian, loves him desperately and deeply, but he loves Tim too, loves Jason, loves all of them, in a completely different way. Tim is the little brother he never thought he would get, the one who didn’t feel like a replacement, but a beautiful addition, someone who always looked up to him and who Dick always wanted to be a role model for.

“Thank you anyway”, Dick mumbles, even if his lips are brushing against the other’s hair when he does so. It feels intimate, and it’s only now that Dick realises how much he missed this. Not just Tim, but touching someone like this, a simple gesture of affection. With Damian, it is always more, at least from his side, and almost always unwelcome for the other, but with his arms around Tim’s slender waist, Dick feels just how much he needed simple, untarnished affection.  
It lasts a few moments longer, then Tim breaks away slowly. There is a smile still on his face though, one which Dick knows his own expression mirrors, one which stays in place even when Tim drops down onto the cold, hard stone beneath them, shifting until his legs are dangling over the ledge.  
Anyone else would most likely fear for the young man’s safety, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to survive the fall from here, but Dick knows Tim well, knows his abilities.

And it is one of the things they used to do when Tim was still just Robin and had escaped Bruce for the night. The thought warms Dick’s heart almost as much as the hug did; before his arms can reach out again to pull the other against his chest, he lets himself fall down next to Tim instead. It’s not graceful, but it doesn’t have to be, and Tim is still grinning at him.  
“I’m glad you’re okay”, Tim tells him after a second or two have passed, and Dick doesn’t nod, just cranes his head, because he isn’t okay and he doesn’t want to start lying to another of his little brothers. Not if he can help it. “But what happened, exactly? I mean, if you don’t mind talking about it, that is.”  
He’s not exactly sure if he does mind, if he doesn’t, but Dick knows he will answer Tim’s question anyway.  
“There wasn’t too much to it, I’m afraid”, he starts, turns so he can lean against the chimney next to him, keeping his eyes on his clever, little brother. “I wish there was, really. But what happened was that I was tired and a bit beat up from the last few patrols and too slow. Two, three seconds, that is all it would have taken to save him, but those few seconds, they were too much, in the end.”  
It still hurts to admit that, tell Tim that he just wasn’t good enough, but there is no other way. And Tim doesn’t seem to judge, just nods thoughtfully, keeps quiet for another few seconds. It fits the atmosphere around them, the cold night air and the streetlights below them, but when he answers, Tim’s words fit it just as well.

“It never happened to me, something like that, so I can’t know how you feel, but I know you tried your best, Dick. You always do.” He smiles, and it’s as bright as the lights beneath them, as genuine as Damian’s eyes on him felt when he told him he would be better next time, and Dick lets his lips curl upwards again. It seems to be enough of an answer.

 

 

They end up getting in a fight anyway, someone trying to rob a petrol station just as Dick is about to call it a night and head home. But Tim is obviously excited and it’s been ages since they last went on patrol together, so Dick tags along, hopes that the thrill of knowing he has brought another criminal to justice will be enough to make him forget about the ache in his knuckles, the stinging pain that still radiates from a cut on his thigh.  
Only that it doesn’t, at least not immediately, because it’s only a few moments after they have cornered the three men, one of them rushes towards him, and as it seems to happen far too often these days, Dick is a little too late.  
The punch lands just right of his mouth, knocking his head back; when he finds his balance again, he finds that his mouth is filling with blood. His teeth are still intact, which is at least a small relief, but his lip is split, the inside of his cheek hurting from where he has bit down on it. He cannot even retaliate, because Tim, oh, it takes him only a few more moments until he has all three of them on the ground, groaning in pain.

Dick isn’t sure what burns brighter, the pain in his jaw, or the shame making his cheeks flush.

 

 

Why he doesn’t go home that night, Dick cannot say. But he doesn’t; instead of taking off in the direction of his apartment, he chooses the longer road to the manor, ignoring Tim’s confused look. He has slept there a few times since he watched the boy die, but always woke up regretting it, like Bruce’s mere presence is enough to make him feel twice as guilty.  
For a moment, just before he passes the gate, Dick thinks about that, thinks that he will most likely wish he had done it differently this time, and yet continues walking. Maybe – probably, most likely, almost definitely – it’s Damian who is the reason for it, but Dick ignores that, too.

If everyone is already in bed or still out on patrol, Dick doesn’t know, but it doesn’t seem to matter much. At least not enough to keep him awake any longer.

His jaw is still aching when Dick peels himself out of the uniform, leaving it a crumpled heap on the floor off his room, before stepping into the bathroom. The only thing he needs more than sleep is a shower.  
The water is hot when he turns it on, maybe a bit too hot, but Dick hops under it anyway, feels it wash away sweat and grime and the cold still lingering from stone ledges and unforgiving wind, from that punch that threw him off balance and the fear that maybe, it’s not distraction that slows him down anymore, maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s his own lacking abilities, maybe this was it. Maybe Nightwing doesn’t have what it takes anymore.

His skin is flushing with the heat; Dick closes his eyes and relishes in it, lets his muscles relax. The effect of the painkillers he took before going out are wearing off slowly, letting him feel just how strained his muscles are, how much he has put his body through.  
If he is getting too old, will he stop? The question pops into Dick’s head, but no answer follows. This is all he knows, has been ever since his parents died what seems a lifetime ago, and everything he is, he is because of Robin, because of Nightwing, because of Batman. And there has never been a reason to wonder what he’d be without them for a long, long time.

 

 

“Could you help me with something?”, Dick asks when he finds Alfred in the dining room, polishing the silverware with a soft cloth.  “It’s nothing big, just a little thing. To keep me from worrying.”  
“Of course, Master Richard.” Alfred turns around, and there is that smile, that look that kept Dick safe through so many lonely nights when he first came to the manor, scared and heartbroken. “Anything you need.”  
“Thank you.” The smile Dick gives in return is a genuine one, even if less bright; he steps closer, as if those few inches less between them would make any difference. “The thing is, could you run a couple of tests on me? Like, a proper check-up, just to make sure that everything is, well. Working.”  
Usually, Alfred’s face is all polite kindness, but now his brow furrows as he watches Dick, surely seeing just how uncomfortable he is.  
“Is everything alright, Master Richard? Any injuries I should know about?”  
“No! No, not at all. It’s just-“, Dick stops, pauses, because he doesn’t quite know how to go on. Then again, there is no way to make this anything but uncomfortable. “I’m afraid I’m growing old, Alfie. And not like Bruce, but just… slow. Sloppy.”

It takes a few moments, but Alfred’s eyes soften, his hands lower the cloth he used for cleaning the cutlery as he looks at Dick.  
“I will do the tests you requested, but if it’s any consolation at all, I am absolutely sure that they will show nothing but that you are in excellent health”, he tells him and although the words don’t change anything at all, they do make him feel so much better.

 

 

And just like always, Alfred is right.  
The tests take hours, have Dick running and fighting and concentrating on words and patterns and everything in between, and for one of the first times, Dick doesn’t know just how he has done when he is finished. His brain feels like mush, but it has been doing that for far too long, his limbs are aching and although it has been half an hour since he stepped off the treadmill, his lungs still feel tight.  
Do so even more when Alfred reappears in the room, clutching a stack of paper. But the other’s face is calm, his lips curved slightly and Dick allows himself to relax, at least a little.  
“And?”, he asks before Alfred has even stopped in front of him, hates that his heart isn’t keeping its steady pace, but instead decides to speed up.  
“Just like I expected.” Alfred hands him the papers, which Dick takes although he is fairly certain he won’t spare them more than a glance; this, that little affirmation that he is not losing his edge yet, is what he needed.

 

 

Damian finds him in the living room later, munching cereal and flicking through TV channels rather listlessly.  
“What’s up, Little D?”, he asks, dares to look at Damian only to find his heart bursting, his mouth dry. The other must be coming straight from the gym, his tanned skin flushed and his hair still damp, a grey t-shirt hanging loosely off his frame.  
“Pennyworth told me you took tests. Why?”  
Damian sits down next to him, looking directly at Dick, and it might be the best and the worst thing at the same time, Damian caring enough to ask what is wrong and Dick having to explain it to the one person that matter above all others.  
“It was nothing, really”, he tries, although he is fairly certain that Damian won’t believe this lie, just like he doesn’t believe most of them. “Just a few check-ups. Routine, almost.”

The other looks as unimpressed as Dick expected him to, crosses his arms across his broad chest and levels Dick with a cool gaze. “Let’s say, just for a moment, that I believed your pathetic excuse for a lie, Grayson, why would Pennyworth feel the need to inform me about your routine examinations?”  
It’s a good question, an excellent one even, one which Dick can only answer with a shrug, a smile and an, “I don’t know?”  
“That’s right, you don’t. Because it never was just that.”  
There is a second in which Dick wants to keep denying it, but hardly more than that, because he knows just as well as Damian does, where this will lead them: to him confessing, because what his little brother wants, he gets.  
So Dick holds his hands up in surrender, sighs. “Alright, alright. It wasn’t much though, really. I just, I was afraid that I might be getting too old for this.”

He doesn’t know what reaction he expects to get, but it definitely isn’t this one; a small, startled laugh escaping Damian’s pretty pink lips, the other obviously almost as surprised as Dick is because of it.  
“In all honesty, Grayson”, Damian adds a second later, having recovered while Dick is still trying to catch his breath; hearing the other laugh is such a seldom, such a wonderful thing. “If anyone does not have to worry about such things for a moment, it is you. You are getting older, yes, but I have hardly ever seen you in such good shape. There is no need to get self-conscious.”  
When he stop speaking, there is the hint of a trace of blush spread across his cheeks, and Dick thinks it’s adorable, even if unnecessary. Damian shouldn’t be embarrassed by his own laugh.

 

 

He dreams again, something so similar to that one dream that had led him to avoid Damian for weeks. They're on the sofa, his little brothers hair wet and his eyes wide, trusting; there is a faint rose-coloured dusting on his cheeks.  
"I've hardly ever seen you look as good as right now before", Damian tells him and scoots closer. In his dream, they seem to be the most normal words he has ever heard, and he reaches out, pushes his fingers through soft hair.  
"You know, if you wanted to, you could kiss me", Damian repeats just like in the dream before, looks at him expectantly, hopefully, like he has been waiting for this.  
“Could I?”, Dick asks, because in his dreams, he can do even this. “Would you want me to?”

And again, Damian laughs, only that this time, it’s a soft, happy sound, even if surprised.  
“Of course, Richard”, he tells him; the use of his first name makes Dick shiver. “How can you not know that? I’ve wanted you to kiss me for years.”

 

 

It should take more, but in the end, it’s just a bunch of Penguin’s goons and a dart which he doesn’t see until it’s too late. It must be drenched in some kind of tranquilizer or poison, because Dick can feel his limbs becoming heavy, even while he is punching on of the men in front of him in the face. Every motion is more difficult than the one before, takes up more of Dick’s strength, and it only takes a few moments until his punches are coming too slow, his dodges don’t work anymore.  
The first blow that hits him comes down on the back of his neck, almost making him fall over, but it’s just the first of many. The second the men see him vulnerable, they rush in, hitting and kicking, and it would be embarrassing, if Dick could still think straight.

Whatever concoction they dipped their darts in, it’s not knocking Dick out, just making him slow down until he finally hardly manages to raise his arms to protect his head. One of them kicks his knees out and Dick goes down, his uniform hopefully keeping his internal organs from being crushed, but not stopping the pain from exploding in his chest, his stomach, his back.  
The men crowd around him, and it’s hard to breathe, even harder to stay conscious when one of the kicks land on the side of his head.  
Maybe this is it, Dick catches himself thinking, although the thought hardly penetrate the fog of pain clouding his mind. Maybe he exhausted his share of luck.

It’s almost impossible to do so, but Dick manages to part his lips, ignoring the blood dribbling from his mouth, activate the communications link with a soft press to his temple.  
“R-Robin”, he gasps out, wants to say more but a kick to his stomach forces the necessary air from his lips.  
He just hopes that Damian is listening, just hopes that the other understands.

 

 

He wakes up, which is something Dick didn’t expect anymore. He’s not in pain, but he must be on all kinds of meds, because it feels like he is floating, his skin prickling and yet feeling too big for his body. It’s almost impossible to pry his eyes open, but Dick manages, and finds himself in one of the rooms he is most familiar with in the world, his old bedroom.  
The blinds must have been closed, because the room is blissfully dark, the old source of light the small lamp on the desk. And there is Damian, sunken together in a heap at the side of Dick’s bed, head pillowed on his arms.  
He’s asleep, and yet Dick’s heart flutters, softly, which is also a sign that he must have been drugged; usually, the mere thought of Damian watching over him would be enough to make his stomach do somersaults.

If he could, if he could feel his arms, Dick would reach out and brush his fingers over the stubble dusting his little brother’s cheeks, but he can’t, wouldn’t know how to. Maybe, however, he makes a sound, or Damian can feel the attention focussed on him, but the other’s eyes flutter open, blue and sleepy, at least for a second.  
And maybe it’s just the meds, Dick cannot be sure when his thoughts are still coming at half their normal rate, but in that second, it seems like Damian wants to reach out to him.  
He doesn’t, though, because the moment is over as quickly as it started, just sits up straight.  
“You are awake”, Damian states, doesn’t question, gets up although Dick would give his left arm to keep him here for a little longer. “I will get Pennyworth.”

 

When he wakes up again, Damian is nowhere to be seen, and Dick feels his absence like a blow to his chest, a tightness in his lungs that won’t vanish. Not that he would be much use if Damian reappeared at his bedside, because Dick can hardly do more than blink, watch as Alfred takes his pulse.  
“You gave us quite the scare, Master Grayson”, the butler tells him as he writes down the results, pats Dick’s arm. “It’s just a good thing that you managed to contact Master Damian, I don’t want to think about what those men had planned for you.”  
Neither does Dick, and judging by Alfred’s smile, he seems to know that.  
“I have never seen Master Damian so upset as he was when he came home with you over his shoulder”, Alfred adds, and it must be a secret he is sharing; Dick’s heart swells, although he is fairly certain that hearing about Damian being worried shouldn’t make him happy. “He wouldn’t leave your bedside either, not until you woke up. You should go and talk to him once you are feeling better.”  
He will.

 

 

“Good morning, sleeping beauty”, Jason says, even before Dick has fully woken up, looking up from his phone. There is a teasing grin on his lips, but he looks affectionate still, maybe even a little bit worried. “Babs already warned me that you’d spend at least half the time asleep before I came here.”  
“Glad to see you too, Jay.” Dick gives his brother a tired smile, raises his hand to add a little wave.  
Barbara was right, though; it has been eight days, and Dick can’t remember when he last spent this much time sleeping. Not that he minds it, he probably would have gone mad otherwise already.  
“So, I heard that the brat has to pull you out from underneath a pile of big, bad men?”  
“Oh, shut up”, Dick groans, seriously considers giving up the comfort of his three pillows in favour of throwing one of them at Jason. “He did not _pull me out_ from anywhere. I think. I wasn’t really conscious.”

His answer makes Jason laugh, which was at least part of the plan, and Dick can’t help but grin. The one good thing about having been injured like this is that almost everyone has come to see him, or at least contacted him in some other way. Everyone but Damian.  
Since Dick woke up the first time, his littlest, most beloved brother has refused to see him, even when Dick had asked Alfred to fetch him. There was no explanation, not even an unbelievable one, and since there was nothing Dick could really have done to prevent this, he doesn’t know what he should apologise for, whenever he gets the chance.  
“How is he doing, though?”, Dick asks after a second, voice softer, a little bit sad, and maybe someone else wouldn’t notice, but Jason knows him too well for that.  
“Shouldn’t you know?” Jason looks suspicious, his brow furrowed. “You’re basically living under the same roof at the moment.”  
“Yeah, well.” Dick shrugs, wondering if he looks as helpless as he feels. “He isn’t talking to me. I even sent Alfred to ask him to come over here, but he refused. I don’t even exactly know what I did.”

“You almost died.” It takes a moment for Jason to answer, but he does, looks at him like he can’t believe just how dumb Dick is acting. “Like, I am not saying that it’s good behaviour, but I’m pretty damn sure that’s the reason. I don’t know if you’ve realised it, Dickiebird, but you’re probably the most important person to the brat and you basically died on him, calling him before passing out and letting yourself be pummelled to mush by some goons. Damian carried you back by himself, and believe me, if only half of what Alfred told me is true, then you looked like not even a Lazarus Pit would be enough to save you.”

“I-“ Dick wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what; he knew that Damian had to be mad at him because of what happened, but he expected it to be more about him being stupid enough to get drugged, than something so surprisingly sentimental. “You really think that?”  
“Of course”, Jason answers and leaves no room for doubt. “Hell, I was a bit mad at you. Worried too, mostly even, but still. And really, as far as he has gotten with not murdering people for looking at him the wrong way, even you have to admit that Damian still expresses at least sixty percent of his emotions as some kind of anger.”  
He’s maybe not right, but not too far off, and it makes sense, at least a bit.  
“You’re right, I guess”, Dick concedes, although it hurts a little to admit that Jason might understand their little brother better, even if just this one time. What he says next, though, must be caused by the meds; they aren’t the truth yet, but they are too close to it already. “It’s just, I miss him. A lot.”

The confession seems to confuse Jason as much as it surprises Dick, makes him stop, look at Dick like he has suddenly become unreadable.  
“Miss him? It hasn’t been long since you’ve seen each other though, has it? Damian stayed over at your flat a few days before you got beat up.”  
He’s right, of course he is, and Dick nods, feels blood rush to his cheeks to betray his uneasiness even more.  
“He did, yes, but it’s –“, he shouldn’t ever say it, Dick knows that, and yet the words drip from his lips before he can stop them, a treacherous, twisted truth at last. “But it’s Damian.”  
Jason doesn’t move an inch, just looks at him, and Dick can pinpoint the exact moment in which all of it starts to make sense to him, from Dick’s hugs and touches, his inability to shut up about Damian, to this last admission. And it feels horrible, it does, but at the same time, it doesn’t.  
“…oh.”

It’s the softest of sounds, which is so unlike Jason, who is brash and bold and loud, and Dick feels his chest seize up, the flush that started at his cheeks drip down to his neck, his chest. He wants to say something, anything, to diffuse the situation, but there are no words, and really, he has said too much already.  
The silence between them stretches, and it might be a good sign, might be the worst, but then Jason leans back, his eyes still on Dick.  
“How- how long?”, he asks, and there is no judgement in his voice, making Dick wonder for just a second, if Jason is familiar with the guilt Dick is carrying inside of him, if he has gone through something similar.  
“….years.”

Admitting it, speaking about it, isn’t satisfying, doesn’t lift a weight off Dick’s shoulders, but at least the words do not feel like barbed wire anymore, being dragged through his throat and mouth.  
Again, it takes a bit until Jason continues, but when he does, his voice is even softer, quiet in a way Dick has never heard it before.  
“Is it serious?”  
The question makes Dick laugh, hoarse and painful, because it has never been anything but.  
“Yes”, he admits. “Yes, it is.”  
He doesn’t know how to go on, because there is nothing and everything to say at the same time, and so Dick stays quiet, his cheeks still burning. At least until something crosses his mind, a terrible, terrifying prospect, something that could turn this even worse.  
“Jason”, he starts, tries to sit up and sinks back to the mattress groaning, his broken ribs making moving torturous. “You can’t tell him. Jay, you can’t. Not ever. Please.”

Dick is desperate, and Jason smiles, not his usual grin, but a genuine, fond smile, then reaches out and ruffles Dick’s hair, careful not to bump his fingers against the bruises on his forehead.  
“I won’t. I promise.”

 

 

The first thing Dick sees when he wakes up is moonlight painting patterns on his sheets. The night must be clear, and Dick wishes he could sit up to look outside. He has always loved watching a starry sky, the moon illuminating the world around him, be it on patrol or sitting on the roof of Wayne manor when he was still younger.  
The second thing is Damian sitting on the chair beside him, green eyes fixed on him. Dick’s heart speeds up, the familiar feeling mixing with a dull kind of nervousness, anxiety about something he knows he cannot change anymore.  
“Grayson, what is your problem?”, Damian asks, no warning, no smile.  
“What?” Dick doesn’t try to sit up, having learnt his lesson, but he shifts closer still, brow furrowing. “My problem? There is no – I don’t have a problem. What are you talking about?”  
“You are lying.” Damian’s tone holds no room for argument, and as much as Dick wishes it wasn’t true, it is. “Do not even think about trying this with me. It might work on Todd, or Drake, it might even work on Father, if you are lucky, but it will _not_ work on me. I _know_ you.”

He does, and he is right again; while Dick told Jason, he could easily have lied, and he has lied to all of the others countless times, but tries his best not to make a habit of lying to Damian.  
Still he shakes his head, holds his little brother’s gaze, even if it is cold, emotionless.  
“There is nothing wrong, Damian. Well, apart from the obvious things, like the broken ribs, and the concussion, and all the other stuff.” Dick doesn’t know why he tries to joke, because it doesn’t work, just like he knew it wouldn’t, but this seems easier to do with a smile on his lips, the pretence of normalcy. “But you know all about that, I guess.”  
“I do”, Damian confirms, but all the worry Jason has spoken about, the anger, there is no trace of it audible in his voice. “But I am not talking exclusively about this new bout of reckless stupidity on your part, Grayson. You are getting slow, lazy. Careless. No matter your physical form. I watched the footage of your patrols, all of them, and although it was only this time that you got seriously hurt, there were at least a dozen times before that where you almost did. Nearly overwhelmed by bank robbers, beaten up by only five of Scarecrow’s henchmen, the list is seemingly endless. So there is a problem, and if it continues, then you are going to die, and this time, for real. I will not let that happen.”

“Damian…”, Dick sighs, pushes a hand through his hair as if it would make anything better. His little brother might be right yet another time, he has gotten hurt more often these last months than ever before.  
“Tell. Me.” It’s a command, nothing else, and Dick didn’t expect anything less. “Todd has told me to talk to you, and I will not leave until I know the reason you keep endangering your health.”  
And Dick believes him. He will have to make sure Jason pays for this later, twice so, because now that he has told one person his secret, it seems that his lips have lost the will to keep the words sealed safe behind them.  
“…you”, they breathe out, not even quite a word anymore once it reaches the air.

Still, it makes Damian freeze mid-motion, one hand raised as his expression closes off, eyes going from cold to dull, dead. It’s only now that Dick realises how his confession could sound, must have sounded to Damian’s ears.  
“What?”, his little brother asks, and his voice sounds like his eyes look; Dick never wants to hear it like this again, no matter what it takes. Anything has to be better than Damian thinking he isn’t loved.  
“You”, he repeats, tries to put all the fondness he feels into that little word. “But not my problem, I don’t mean that. You couldn’t ever be a problem, not to me, it’s just – you’re – forget it. It doesn’t matter. But you’re not a problem, you couldn’t be.”

Suddenly the moonlight pouring in through the window, making Damian’s eyes look twice as green, isn’t the only reason Dick is glad it’s night; maybe the relative darkness helps concealing the way his cheeks are flushing.  
“It matters”, Damian tells him, and his voice is just that little bit more lively, even if nowhere near how Dick would like it to sound. “To me. And obviously to you as well. And if I somehow – impair your abilities to survive, in whatever way, I will step away.”  
He sounds younger than he ever has, unsure and tentative, hopeful that Dick won’t go on and break his heart; he breaks Dick’s instead.

“You don’t. Not at all. You don’t _impair_ anything, it’s me who is doing all the impairing. Even now, it seems”, Dick answers immediately, voice strong and steady, even if the words are blurred, spoken too fast, because he can say this with absolute certainty. The sky is blue, grass is green, Damian is doing nothing but making his life a little brighter.  
Damian, who looks more like he should, takes a deep breath like he sometimes does before lashing out at a team mate, at Dick.  
“Will you _please_ stop speaking in riddles?”, he asks in a tone that Dick has never heard him use before. It’s softer than usual, with the barest, tiniest trace of desperation clinging to the vowels. “If it’s not me who damages your performance, then what is it? I need to know, Richard.”

Perhaps it’s the use of his name, or that tone, that Dick cannot stand the mere thought of Damian desperate, or maybe it’s as mundane as it gets, and he has carried his secret too long to stay silent any longer. But suddenly, the words spill from his lips without there being any way of stopping them, a tidal wave of guilt and overwhelming love drowning out the silence between them.  
“It’s – God, it’s complicated”, he starts, and his brain can hardly keep track of the words his mouth wants to say. “But alright. I guess, I mean, you would have found out anyway. At some point. Why delay the inevitable, right? It’s you, but not in the way you think. Thought. You don’t damage my performance or anything, it’s just that I’m – I’m distracted around you. Because of you. Because when you’re around, Dami, it’s – all I can see is you, and the way you move, and smile, and look at me, and what helps against thinking about you day and night is going out there and kicking as many bad guys in the face as I possibly can, because when I see them, and what they do, that’s the only time I’m not reminded of you. Because even if the others can’t see it, you’re everything that makes this city good to me, Damian, and I know I am more than a decade older than you and I know that you’re my brother, my friend, my _Robin_ , but I just can’t help it. And I know that what I am doing is a terrible idea and bad for me, and yes, that it might get me killed, almost did, but it _helped_. Not that that matters, not anymore, because I just fucked everything up anyway. Sorry.”

By the time Dick has ended, he’s almost out of breath, his face burning with unwanted blood, and Damian is staring at him like he cannot possibly comprehend what he has just heard. And maybe it would be better that way, maybe they can just pretend that none of this has ever happened.  
“You – you did not”, Damian says softly, even before Dick has come to terms to what just happened, stumbling over his words in a way Dick has never heard before.  
“What?”  
“You did not, as you so eloquently put it, _fuck everything up_ ”, Damian replies, sounding more like himself, even if his face is still blank. Dick still has no idea what he is talking about.  
“What?”  
Damian turns to the side slightly, lowers his gaze, as if he couldn’t possibly continue looking a Dick. He’s scowling just a little bit, pink lips pursed, but he’s not running, not shouting, and Dick has no idea what any of this means.

“It appears that I have been mistaken. I thought that keeping quiet would be the best way of dealing with my – my _emotions_ , but it seems that instead, it was the worst, endangering not only my sanity, but the life of the person most important to me as well.” He’s still looking away, and some tiny part of Dick’s brain is starting to piece things together, make sense of what Damian is trying to tell him, but it’s too slow, too weak.  
“What?”  
The word makes Damian look at him again, and for a second, Dick finds himself breathless, because the fire is back in his little brother’s eyes, maybe even more intense now that it has been rekindled. And it’s not just that, Damian looks radiant almost, blissfully happy.  
“I will have to spell it out for you, won’t I, Richard?”, the other asks, and there is half a smile curling his lips upwards, colouring his voice. Teasing, maybe, but mainly elated. “Your feelings, they are reciprocated.”

For a second, Dick thinks that the explanation still hasn’t been enough, because he is only hearing words, sees no sense behind them, but then it hits him, a blow to the chest from which he just might never recover.  
_What_ , he wants to ask, because it seems appropriate still, but stops himself, in favour of staring at Damian, lips parted and mind reeling. Because there is no way the other can have said what he just heard, but at the same time, there is no denying it.  
Happiness blooms in chest like a sun rising, slow and steady and then all at once, warmth filling him from his eyelashes to the tips of his toes, guilt dissolving to let Dick realise just how vast the amount of love is he holds for the boy, the young man in front of him.  
“They are? …you do?”, he finally asks, which is just marginally better. “Really?”  
“Yes”, Damian confirms, and it feels like one of those dreams, too good to be true. “For years. Forever.”

Neither of them moves, and Damian’s answer settles heavily in Dick’s heart, finds its home there. Every pump of blood rushing through his body seems to carry a bit of it with it, the impossible knowledge of his impossible love being reciprocated.  
Silence stretches between them, but this time, it feels more like a comforting blanket around them, keeping them safe in their little cocoon, their locked eyes their only connection. And it’s enough until it isn’t anymore, because Damian’s eyes looked like this in Dick’s dream as well, alight with affection, and Dick has to make sure it is the only lingering similarity.

He reaches out slowly without breaking their eye contact, watches Damian’s mouth going slack, soft. It’s nothing more than a touch and yet it feels electric, Dick’s fingertips brushing over the soft skin of Damian’s cheeks, trailing down to his jaw, stubble catching on his callouses.  
“Richard…”, the other mutters, and Dick is already addicted to the way Damian says his name now, like it holds all the answers, like a prayer.  
Without thinking, Dick does it again, lets his fingers trail up, down again, and Damian leans into the touch ever so slightly. He wishes he could sit up straight, take the other’s face in his hands and watch his expression soften, but the moment is too precious, too fragile to taint it with pain, so Dick touches the tips of his fingers to Damian’s lips, listens to him suck in a surprised breath.  
“Can I get a kiss?”, he asks, a smile distorting his words, because in his dreams, those words belonged to Damian, and it’s just now that Dick knows the other might have wanted to ask them, too.  
This Damian, the one he can touch and hold and watch, nods slowly, a spark of amusement shining amidst the affection in his eyes.

Clever, calloused fingers catch his own, lowering them as Damian leans in, moonlight illuminating his skin and making him look softer somehow; Dick’s heart speeds up until he cannot tell one beat from the next.  
The kiss is soft, is gentle, hardly more than a touch of lips, and yet Dick’s fingers curl around Damian’s tightly as he kisses back, tasting skin and a hint of sweetness. Damian’s kiss is clumsy, inexperienced, and it’s with a start that Dick realises that this might be the other’s first. Dick raises the hand Damian isn’t holding to cup his little brother’s cheek, stroking the skin there, feeling as much of Damian as he possibly can.

An eternity might have passed by the time they break apart, and Dick’s lips are still tingling, still aflame; Damian looks like he might be experiencing the exact same thing.  
“I never considered this might happen”, the other confesses, and Dick can’t help but smile, use the hand he still has on Damian’s cheek to draw him close enough to feel each puff of breath coming from him.  
“Me neither. I was happy enough with playing video games and you sleeping on the couch, but this…”  
This is a thousand times better, Dick wants to say but doesn’t know how to. Damian understands anyway.  
“As was I”, he replies, steals another, fleeting kiss from Dick’s willing lips. “I would follow you anywhere.”  
“Good”, Dick answers, and is sure that his chest will burst open any second, unable to hold this amount of bliss. “But I am not going anywhere.”

 

 

Alfred finds them the next morning, Damian curled up next to Dick on the bed, their fingers still intertwined. The night must have taken its toll on the other, because Damian doesn’t wake up when the door opens, not even when Dick raises his head slightly, cheeks tinted pink.  
_Later_ , he mouths, and Alfred nods, smiles, and leaves. There will have to be talks later, about a future together, about telling Bruce and all the others, about how to make this work, but when Dick lets his head drop back onto the pillows, looks over at Damian asleep next to him, lashes fanning out over his cheeks to paint dark shadows on them, he cannot bring himself to care.  
They have time, and although it sounds as improbable as it did the very first time, they have each other.  


**Author's Note:**

> In case you want to say hi, send me a prompt, or tell me something nice, you can find me on Tumblr here:  
> [X](http://www.coloursflyaway.tumblr.com)


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